


A Simple Touch

by kittimau



Series: Dragon Age Lovers [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Awkward Crush, Crushes, Cute, Denial of Feelings, Dorks in Love, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Secret Crush, Sweet, Touch-Starved, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22537432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittimau/pseuds/kittimau
Summary: Written for theDA Loversprompts from ScharouxPrompt:Hand HoldingGarrett and Fenris share a special moment one evening at The Hanged Man.
Relationships: Fenris/Hawke (Dragon Age), Fenris/Male Hawke
Series: Dragon Age Lovers [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1620610
Comments: 17
Kudos: 84





	A Simple Touch

It was a whisper of a touch; a graze really, against the back of his naked hand beneath the table that grabbed his attention. Fenris glanced at the man beside him. Noticed Hawke’s face, faintly flushed from the ale they’d been drinking all night, even the tip of his nose slightly rosy below the stripe of scarlet warpaint laid across the bridge and over his cheeks. He caught the man’s eyes, and both quickly looked away. Back to the table, the large mugs set before them and their companions occupying the other seats.

An accident, surely.

Bandits had ambushed them earlier that day– a huge mistake on the thugs’ part. When the Champion fought, he fought with all his being. And the man did not lose. Throughout the battle, Fenris had caught himself staring, and not for the first time. Watching the bicep of his arm flex, exposed between the pieces of his armor. The way the red tattoo one one side shifted and rippled with each thrust of his blade, pulse of his Rift magic, or casting of flame. His strong yet nimble legs when he bound from enemy to enemy on the field. The fierce determination in his eyes during battle, and the glint of mirth in them now as he drank and talked and laughed sitting at their usual table in The Hanged Man.

Fenris had never met anyone like him; no man, nor mage… He was bold, fearless, passionate and courageous – if sometimes a bit foolish and impulsive. He was strong, both physically and in spirit. His willpower was unyielding, a match for even the most capable of warriors. Garrett Hawke danced around his enemies with grace, spun his stave as though it were an extension of himself. With a long, heavy blade on one end, he could take an opponent down wielding both magic and brute force. He was tall, broad, and… and _beautiful_.

The thought had stung, in the beginning. That he should have these uncomfortable thoughts, these feelings, and for a mage! But over time… He’d come to long for these moments. Always finding himself beside the man, sitting close together, stuffed into the same booth. The occasional brush of Hawke’s thigh or arm against his, sending electrifying tendrils of excitement from the point of contact straight to his heart.

He longed for these precious seconds more so because they were so rare. Unusual, considering how freely Hawke touched. So often he’d watched with something akin to frustration when the dark-haired man wrapped his thick arms around Isabela’s waist, sauntering around Lowtown with the sensual pirate as if the two owned the place. Or carried Merrill atop his broad shoulders, hands secured over the petite elf’s thighs to keep her from falling. The gentle, reassuring touches he shared with Anders – ugh – as the mage healed Hawke’s injuries after a battle. The way he slung his arm around Varric’s shoulders as they sat in the tavern playing Wicked Grace. He touched everyone… everyone except Fenris.

At first, he’d been glad for it. The distance made things easier. He did not like to be touched. Gradually, it began to chafe. Grate. Annoy.

He risked a look at Hawke again. Absentmindedly scratching his beard, gazing at the pale, frothy amber liquid in his mug. Quiet – another anomaly. He was typically boisterous, loud and friendly. The center of attention. Yet now he sat, contemplative and almost shy. Smiling softly, halfheartedly, as Varric regaled the group with an outlandish tale.

Maybe… maybe he’d take a chance. If Hawke recoiled, the suspicion of his disgust would stand confirmed. If not… _Kaffas! Just do it!_

He reached beneath the table slowly, carefully, so as not to alert the entire group and suffer the following humiliation. Held his breath, and laid just two fingers atop Hawke’s gloveless hand. Hawke gasped, ever so quietly, beside him. This time, he did not flinch or move away. Fenris turned his head to meet Hawke’s brilliant golden brown eyes, surrounded by long, thick lashes, the faint hint of age beginning to show at the corners. His lips were parted, as though a question lingered there, hesitant to escape.

How does one wordlessly convey a feeling to another that they do not yet understand themselves?

He waited. But the man just stared! Blankly, in shock. Was it… was it truly so appalling, that Fenris might actually… want to…

_Damn it all._

Fenris looked away, that hand still on Hawke’s, and grabbed his mug with the opposite one. Guzzled the remainder of the stale, cheap ale down. Set the mug upon the roughhewn wooden table and wiped his lips with the back of his tattooed hand. And then he took Hawke’s hand in earnest, flipped it to better intertwine their fingers.

Calloused palm against calloused palm. Strong and warm. Like a dam bursting within his heart, heat spread throughout his chest, crawling up his neck in vines that stretched and caressed from within, all the way to the tips of his pointed ears. This feeling was unlike any other. It was… more than good. It was _exquisite_.

Eyes darting around the table, Fenris was assured no one else had noticed. He looked back at Hawke, who had a wide, ridiculous grin splayed across his face. He fought back a smile of his own, overcome with the sudden desire to feel much more than just Hawke’s hands. Like the scruff of his beard where it faded down his neck – what would that feel like against his lips? What would his skin taste like, as his mouth marked a path to his collarbone? Down his chest?

Fenris shifted in his seat, suddenly aware of another growing sensation, and cleared his throat. Hawke squeezed his hand, offering a softer, kinder smile, before turning away to fling a witty retort in Isabela’s direction. And for the life of him, Fenris couldn’t recall a single bit of banter spoken throughout the better half of the last hour. Because this night, all that mattered was this feeling, this moment between him and Hawke. This affection, still unspoken, but finally clear to them both.

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? Let me know in the comments!
> 
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> 
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